


decisions and consequences

by zhuzhubi



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Coffee Shops, F/M, Hostage Situations, Meet-Cute, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, i know those things kinda conflict just go with it okay, post prision spencer reid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26437117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhuzhubi/pseuds/zhuzhubi
Summary: spencer falls in love with a baker who wears fruit-themed dresses
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Original Female Character(s), Spencer Reid/Reader
Kudos: 117





	1. decisions

**Author's Note:**

> a request from my tumblr @zhuzhubii

Trying out new coffee shops and cafés and bakeries - really any eatery that has coffee and sweets - is a weekend activity Spencer picked up at some point over the past few months. He decided one day that he needed something to occupy his time other than reading (which he’s been having trouble focusing on for more than an hour) and watching reruns of Doctor Who (which isn’t engaging enough to keep him sufficiently distracted). 

Getting out of his apartment for something other than work is good for him after ~~prison and Mexico and Cat and Scratch~~ _everything_ that’s happened, and anyway it’s nice to drink some coffee that’s actually well-prepared for once. 

Her bakery is the fifth he tries, and he immediately decides he likes it - the interior is warm and homely, the furniture is mismatched in such a way that it all works perfectly together. There are mini bookshelves stocked with everything from _Jane Eyre_ to _Artemis Fowl,_ and magazines and newspapers in print copy. It’s busy, but not crowded - something that’s pushed him away from the more popular places - and the woman standing behind the counter smiles at him when he walks in, calling “Good morning! What can I get for you today?” when it’s his turn to order.

He realizes he’s gotten lost in thought again - he’s made it to the front of the line without even glancing at the menu - and balks, stuttering out “I-I, uh…,” while trying to quickly read the chalkboard hung up on the wall behind her and come to a decision.

There are so many choices, all written in swirly handwriting and all with funny names. He doesn’t know what to choose - that isn’t uncommon now but that doesn’t mean he’s used to it. Doesn’t mean his heart doesn’t start beating a little faster as he thinks about having so many options. About all the people behind him and how he’s holding up the line and how he’s probably annoying them -

The woman - (y/n), says the name tag pinned to her watermelon-printed dress - notices the way he starts to rock on his heels and twist his hands together, the way his eyes dart back and forth across the board and the crease between his brows grows deeper and deeper. She says, “The dark roast is my favorite of the plain coffees. If you’re looking for something sweeter, I like the cinnamon latté.”

He sighs out a breath of relief - narrowing down the options makes choosing much less overwhelming - and replies, “Yeah, um…th-the cinnamon one sounds good, thank you.”

Spencer hands over his card and she swipes it, turning around to fix him his drink without even batting an eye - he’s grown used to tense lips and worried glances, and it’s so _refreshing_ for someone to just casually help him out without making a huge deal out of it. 

The drink is warm under his palms when she hands it over with a smile, her soft voice bouncing around his ears, “Have a nice day!”

As he settles himself into a corner seat, sipping at his coffee and idly flipping through whatever books happened to be left out on the table in front of him, he’s already thinking about maybe coming again next week. And then he glances over at the counter and she catches his eye, sending a shy smile and a little wave in his direction, and he makes up his mind.

It certainly doesn’t hurt that the coffee’s fantastic, either. 

…

He ends up coming week after week and working his way through the menu, trying out mochas and iced lattes and milky chai tea, munching on sugary cinnamon rolls and savory mini quiches as he flips through the paper at a (relatively) casual pace, sometimes bringing his own books and sometimes trying out whatever happens to be in front of him. 

On the eighth visit - the tenth week since he first came, due to unfortunately-timed cases - he picks up his napkin after finishing a (delightful) cheese danish and finds that someone’s written a phone number on it. He glances up at her - the woman he now knows to be the owner of the bakery - over the reading lamps and bookshelves and she blushes and averts her eyes, a soft smile pulling at the corners of her lips as she wipes a damp cloth over the counter.

He doesn’t wait until he gets home, instead walks right over with every intention of just asking her. But once he’s actually standing there and she’s blinking up at him he falters, a blush creeping up his neck and his voice catching in his throat. He holds the napkin out in front of him, glancing between it and her, thumbing over the number he’s already memorized and stuttering, “Y-you…”

She looks at him with hopefulness (and mild amusement), nodding encouragement and biting back a grin. Spencer takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment before starting over, “Do you want to…go out sometime? With-with me?”

She giggles and replies, “Of course, silly - that’s why I gave you my number!” her strawberry-themed dress fluttering as she bounces a little in her excitement. 

…

He takes her to all his favorite places, visiting museums and monuments when he knows they won’t be too busy, taking walks through parks and smiling and children’s laughter. He teaches her how to play chess - she knew the basics before, like many people do, but not any kind of actual strategy - and she teaches him how to play Connect Four and Candy Land and HedBanz. 

She shows him the back of the bakery and lets him have a go a time or two (when they’re closed), laughing at how astoundingly terrible he is and how cute he looks covered in flour. He keeps her away from the Bureau, and she tells him it’s okay as long as he doesn’t bottle everything up and hold it inside. He’s still working on that one, but she understands that too, understands that it’s not something he can unlearn in a day, or even over the course of a few months. 

They go out with her friends sometimes, chatting over dinner and wine (or grape juice, in his case). He wants to introduce her to the team, to his own friends, but _not yet_. She’s his person _separate_ from the chaos of it all, apart from everything that’s happened to him as a result of his job, and he wants her to stay that way, at least for now. 

…

They’re stopping by a convenience store - picking up snacks for a movie night - when it happens. A man bursts inside and pulls out a gun, waving it around and yelling, “On the floor! Everyone get on the floor!”

The first thing that passes through Spencer’s mind is, ‘ _Why does this keep happening to me?_ ’ 

The second is, “ _Oh god - (y/n)_!”

All of this takes less than a second and he’s dropping to his knees before a third thought even registers. He turns his head to the side and sees (y/n) frozen in shock, her legs beginning to shake as her instincts fight against each other and the man stalks closer, his voice booming out, “Get on the floor, I said! What, are you stupid? Get down!”

Spencer reaches for her before he has the chance to weigh his options, tugging at the bottom seam of her dress until she collapses down next to him, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. The man stalks closer, leering down at her with a slimy smirk. 

He lowers his guard as he does it, his finger loosening on the trigger just slightly, and paying too much attention to (y/n) rather than his surroundings. Spencer has half a second to make a decision before he reacts, drawing his back-up from his ankle holster and springing to his feet in one swift motion, pistol-whipping the man as he spins around and tries to pull the trigger. 

The ~~man~~ unsub lies dazed on the floor as Spencer kicks away his gun, keeping his own pointed squarely at the unsub’s chest as he barks out, “Call 911!”

His vision is starting to tunnel and he can hear (y/n)’s breath hitching from the floor beside him. He wants to go to her, to pull her into a tight hug and bury his face in the crook of her neck, soothe his hand over her back, but he can’t. He can’t because he has to secure the unsub until help arrives and he can’t take his eyes off of him and -

Someone comes up next to him with raised arms and says, “Sir, I need you to lower your weapon,” and it takes him a moment to realize the unsub is being led away in cuffs, that the person talking to him is a police officer, not a threat. 

He drops it right away and says, “I’m an FBI agent, I have a license to carry,” pulling his hands into his body as he tries to conceal the tremors.

The police officer replies, “I know,” and he glances up at her with a furrowed brow. She continues, “You gave your girlfriend your jacket earlier, remember? Your badge was inside, she showed it to us a minute ago…”

She keeps talking, says something about reviewing security footage and giving a statement, but all he can hear is, “girlfriend, your girlfriend,” and all he can think is _(y/n)_. He has enough presence of mind to ask the officer where she is before just walking away from her mid-sentence. The officer points to where (y/n) is talking to one of the other officers, giving her statement Spencer guesses. 

He hurries over to her, pulling her into the hug he was imagining before, soothing her when she soon starts sobbing into his chest, gripping at his shirt and hiding her face from the world. There will be statements and investigations to worry about later, but in this moment they’re not important. They can wait. All that matters _right now_ is the woman wearing his jacket over a dress printed with cartoony pineapples who’s curled herself into his chest. Letting body heat and increasingly steady breaths bring each other back to earth.


	2. consequences

(y/n) wants him to come home with her after all is said and done (in terms of giving statements, at least), presses herself into his side and says, “Don’t go.” So Spencer goes home with her, follows her into her apartment and looks over the familiar space and -

He doesn’t know what to do, just stands in the middle of the living room and stares at the wall until she drags him over to the couch and curls up in his arms - he feels the way her body trembles and wetness of tears. He hears her start to sob and goes through the motions of comforting her, running his hand down her back and through her hair, humming softly and whispering, “I know, I know. It’s okay. I promise, it’s gonna be okay…”

This is how it always goes for him - there’s the burst of emotion _right after_ , then the numbness, then inevitable crash that always comes in the end. It’s hard for him to feel anything right now. 

Although maybe there is _one_ thing that he feels - that thing is dread. Dread in the larger sense - like _I really don’t know if I can make it through this again_ \- but also in a much more immediate way. Spencer knows that _new_ nightmares are coming, that he won’t be able to sleep tonight, nor for a good while yet.

(and maybe if he were feeling more right now he’d be angry about that - his ability to sleep properly had just started to improve over the past couple of months, and now it’s been ripped away from him again. As it is, he just feels resigned. Like these things are just going to keep on happening to him and maybe it’s time that he just accepted it)

He takes her to bed once she starts to fall asleep, gently re-dressing her in a set of pajamas with little smiling cartoon fruits printed on them. He pulls the covers over her and smooths them down with his hand, brushing her hair out of her face as she nods off. Before he can get up, she reaches out and catches the bottom of his shirt, mumbling a second, “Don’t go,” as she tightens her grip.

“I won’t,” Spencer replies, resting a hand on her body over the covers until she finally drifts off to sleep, too exhausted to stay awake and too drained to even make an attempt. 

He waits another twenty minutes after her breathing evens out, then slowly stands and makes his way toward the kitchen, trying desperately to rub the fatigue out of his eyes as he fumbles with the coffee machine. 

…

They’re at his apartment this time, huddled under the covers together as (y/n) tries to sleep. Spencer thinks she’s strong for doing that - for still trying, most of the time at least. The nightmares are horrible and she ends up jolting awake most of the time, caught between being scared into silence and being scared into a scream - Spencer knows the feeling. He knows the feeling and he’s so tired of it - downs coffee in unhealthy amounts so that he can stay awake (until his body takes over and he can’t anymore). 

He promised her he wouldn’t bottle things up. 

He doesn’t want her to worry. 

Historically, he’s dealt with trauma on his own (for better or worse). Even if he wanted to, he doesn’t _know how_ to let her in fully.

He _does_ know how to take care of someone, knows how to put aside his own pain for the sake of someone else (rather, knows how to ignore his own pain because it’s sometimes easier to take care of someone else instead). So he lies in bed with her to make her believe he’s sleeping too (or trying, at least). He comforts her through nightmares and talks her through flashbacks and tells her _it won’t always be like this_ even though he still doesn’t know if that’s true. 

She knows _exactly_ what he’s doing ( _Spencer, I really appreciate everything you’re doing for me but…you have to take care of yourself too_ ) and he pretends to be naive to that fact ( _I don’t know what you’re talking about_ ). 

She lets it go because what else is she supposed to do?

… 

(y/n) comes to him one night and says, “I’m still not dealing super well with…what happened and I feel like I’ve been putting too much responsibility on you with regards to that, especially considering that you’re also still… _processing_ things too. Um…I guess I just wanted to let you know that I’ve decided to start seeing a therapist.”

His immediate reaction is to feel…betrayed? Although on second thought that’s not the right word at all - the truth is that Spencer doesn’t know how he feels. Therapists and counsellors and psychiatrists have always kind of felt like the enemy - like the people he had to convince of his ‘okayness’ so that he could try to get on with his life (so that he could push those _tough things_ to the back of his mind and keep pretending they never happened because maybe, just maybe, that’ll make it go away. _Maybe if I just don’t talk about it, it’ll be like it never happened_ ). 

He was always afraid of his teachers finding out about his situation at home because he loved his mom - he _loves his mother_ \- and he was _so scared_ of being taken away from her. So he hid it - all of it. He hid the things at home for obvious reasons, and he hid the bullying because he didn’t want them to look further into it - he was already conspicuous enough as an academic prodigy. 

He grew up afraid of what the doctors were going to say next, of what they were going to say about his mother - he’s never fully forgiven himself for forcibly committing her (though it helps that she has, at least). And even though the likelihood of developing schizophrenia is dropping with every year, he’s still afraid that it’ll happen to him - that it’s _already_ happened to him and he just doesn’t know it yet. 

After Tobias, Spencer just wanted to forget. He pretended like he was fine, applied his well-practice skill in the art of misdirection and talked circles around the woman conducting his psych-eval until she gave in and reinstated him, all the while getting through the day by abusing stolen prescription narcotics. He didn’t want to talk about it - he _especially_ didn’t want to talk about it with a stranger (he’s always wished his friends would’ve done more to help, though if he’s being completely honest with himself he wouldn’t have accepted it. Maybe it would have been nice if they had tried, at least).

Spencer’s built his life on pretending to be fine - he did it after Georgia and after Emily and after Maeve and after prison. The only reason he let Luke talk to him about PTSD during the hunt for Scratch was because he was just _too damn exhausted_ to come up with an excuse or a reason to change the topic - trauma has always felt like a weakness to him even though he _never_ sees it that way in other people (and if that doesn’t highlight the double standard Spencer holds between others and himself, what does?) 

It felt good to be reinstated even though he _knew_ that between nightmares and flashbacks and triggers and reintegrating into his life and dealing with his mother’s care and the looming threat of a relapse - well, it might have been beneficial to take more time. But that’s not something Spencer’s ever done - it’s not something he _knows how_ to do. So he went back to work and stopped seeing the therapist as soon as the bureau would let him. He hovered in the back of NA meetings until the cravings were bearable again and then stopped going. He did his best to hold everything in until he got home and there was no one around to witness it.

He knows that what happened in the convenience store was (yet another) traumatic experience - not only for him, but for (y/n) too. Spencer _knows_ that, but he doesn’t want to admit it to himself. He doesn’t want to admit it because he doesn’t want to deal with it - and somewhere in the back of his brain he hears Ethan saying _that might help you forget, but it won’t make it go away_ and remembers not having a good response for it. He’s caught between _knowing_ and not being able to break out of old patterns, not being able to make himself _do anything_ about it - it’s _frustrating_.

So when (y/n) sits him down on the couch one night and says, “I’ve decided to start seeing a therapist,” all of _that_ is what Spencer feels. Maybe a better word for it is _jealousy_. Or maybe _defensiveness_ \- he knows that she made the appointment for herself, but for a split second he’s afraid that she’s gonna make him go too. And he _knows_ that’s not true, knows that she would never force him unless he posed a risk to himself (and he knows, intellectually at least, that going to therapy isn’t a bad thing _at all_ ) - she just wants him to be aware of where she is and what she’s doing in terms of her mental health. Spencer knows _all of that._

Immediately after his gut reaction passes, he feels guilty. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to - when he glances back over at (y/n) he sees that her lips have fallen into a frown and he knows immediately that every negative thing that just crossed his mind was blatantly obvious in his expression. 

He doesn’t have anything against her seeking help if she feels like she needs it - all of those things she just saw on his face are directed completely at himself, not at her. But that’s not apparent and he’s painfully aware of that fact - he opens and closes his mouth as he tries to find the words to explain that to her without it sounding like he’s backtracking -

It takes him too long. The front door slams, and she’s gone.

…

Spencer walks into the bakery the next morning - it’s part of his routine and he honestly didn’t even think about it until he was already pulling open the door. He bites his lip as he steps into line and waits for (y/n) to notice him - when he steps up the counter and doesn’t know what to say he feels just as lost as he did the first time he was here. 

This time, she doesn’t know what to say either, just furrows her brow as he tries to collect his thoughts, her fingers worrying over the sharpie she keeps at the counter for to-go cups. He finally manages to force out, “Can I…um - can I order a cinnamon latté?” desperately hoping that she knows what he means.

She pauses for a moment and glances over his face, over his genuine expression, and then nods ever so slightly, saying, “Yeah, yeah of course,” and waving his card away when Spencer tentatively starts pulling it out of his wallet.

It’s a coffee in a paper to-go cup - as it always is on the weekdays - but she also hands him a cheese danish even though he didn’t order one, letting her hands linger on his as she hands it over. 

…

Spencer looks over at her curled up on the couch across from him, cradling a mug of hot tea between her hands and softly blowing on it before she takes a sip. He doesn’t want to start the conversation, would much rather just keep existing in the moment, but he knows it needs to happen. He sucks in a breath to prepare himself, opens his mouth -

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

He looks at her in surprise and she looks right back at him, blinking owlishly as a slight smile tugs at her lips. A brief chuckle escapes Spencer’s lips as he tries to think of something to say -

“I…I shouldn’t have stormed out like that. I didn’t give you a change to explain, I’m sorry,” she says as she worries at her lip.

Spencer shakes his head in response, tangling his hands together as he mumbles,“No, no - it was my fault -”

“Let’s not do that,” she cuts him off, “Wait, sorry. Um, I didn’t mean for that to sound so harsh, I just…I don’t think we need to be trying to find blame in this situation. Um, yeah - that’s all I’m saying, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah - of course,” he replies, “Um, so I guess I should just…start?”

She gives him an encouraging nod, scooting a little closer on the couch and leaning her head to one side like she does when she’s listening.

“Okay,” Spencer takes a deep breath, “I want you to know that…I don’t have any, um… _negative feelings_ , I guess you could call them, surrounding you starting therapy. I don’t want to make this all about me because it’s _not_ and I’m not trying to make excuses _,_ but I think it might be…helpful? Maybe? For you to know that I-I don’t…”

He trails off, worrying at his lip as he tries to collect his thoughts, “Um, I’m not sure what exactly I’m trying to say…I-I have a history of-of trying to run away from my problems - from trauma that I’ve experienced - um…okay. I…what I’m trying to say is that all of my negative feelings about therapy and asking for help in general are _completely_ directed towards myself.”

(y/n) reaches over to take his hand in hers, tracing over the lines of his palm as she replies, “I figured as much. Once I had some time to think it over,” before letting the conversation lapse into silence, all the while continuing the motions of her hands.

He tentatively scoots closer, letting out a sigh of relief when she doesn’t reject his presence and instead leans her head against his shoulder and sinks into him when he wraps an arm around her. 

Eventually she lifts her head again, taking a moment to catch his eye before continuing, “But Spencer…if you want this relationship to keep working, you’re gonna have to let yourself address what happened. And I don’t mean going to therapy necessarily if you’re not comfortable with that - you have a lot of people in your life who want you to be happy and healthy, as cheesy as that is, and who want to help support you. I know it’s hard to let people in, but you can’t just keep pretending that these things didn’t happen, okay?”

Spencer leans his head against hers and nods, feeling her reach up and thread her fingers through his hair. “Okay,” he replies, voice just barely above a whisper, “I will. I promise.”

…

It takes time - of course it does. And it’s hard and often painful and frustratingly non-linear. But one day, months later, Spencer comes home from a case that hit too close to home and asks for her support without even thinking about it.

She doesn’t smile right then because it would be inappropriate (well, more so because supporting him is more important in the moment that analyzing how much progress he’s made), but she does later, once he’s feeling a little better - she’s found it’s made it easier for _her_ to ask for help too, mostly because she doesn’t feel so guilty about that part of the relationship being so one sided anymore. 

Spencer shifts and lets out a few nonsensical words in his sleep - (y/n) thinks _things are good._

…

_When Spencer (finally) introduces her to the team, (y/n) fits right in - he invites her to dinner at Rossi’s. As he watches her playfully argue about cooking versus baking with Rossi, and compare patterned dresses with Garcia, and stuff Emily full of desserts, Spencer can’t fathom why he ever wanted to keep them apart._


End file.
